Writings
Suzanne Snyder-Carroll
novelist and poet who will also write for you!
Trailer Trash: When Hester Murphy finds her naked, unconscious husband Al in bed next to an equally naked, dead, young woman, she makes a big mistake and hides the truth from everybody by buring the body of her former student just outside their trailer. Through their first winter in Florida, she struggles to hang on to her thirty-year marriage despite Al's betrayal; and just when it looks like she might, she discovers something unthinkable, the developers move in and start digging the trailer park up, and Hester has to decide if she can overcome her disgust and if security is sweeter than revenge.
An Excerpt from Chapter 10
I drank my coffee, poured another cup, and picked at a slice of low-fat zucchini bread I baked for Al two days ago. I almost gagged on a mouthful of it when Dee and Eve tapped on the sliding glass door. They saw me sitting there so I had to let them in. They appeared disheveled, but pumped up.
"It's not even seven o'clock and the damage in the park has been assessed and a clean-up crew organized," Eve was wide-eyed, on a roll.
I tried to act a little interested, but wasn't, considering I just spent the whole night cleaning up a much worse mess. If they only had a clue? "Come on, we need you," Dee was already cutting herself a piece of the zucchini bread.
"What about my roof? I've got to get a hold of the insurance guy." It was an excuse to get rid of them.
"Hester, honey, they never cover hurricane damage," Eve said this as she moved into the chair opposite me and sat staring at me like I was a pathetic child.
"They cover wind damage, they cover flood damage, but they don't cover hurricane damage. Right, Dee?"
Dee nodded.
"How are your units?" What else am I going to say? Thanks for stopping by, but I want you to go away, to get the hell out of my house, I mean my half-destroyed trailer, the one that's missing half of a roof.
"I lost two screens. I was lucky," Dee was leaning against the counter talking with her mouth full.
I looked at Eve.
"Nothing, no damage at all. All of Coconut Palm Drive is unscathed.""Good for you, Eve. That's great. I'm glad it wasn't a total disaster."
"Nothing around here is ever a total disaster. We'll have this park fixed up in no time. Right, Dee?" Eve winked at Dee and they responded in chorus, "It's the Pleasant Palms way!"
I wanted to puke. The coffee in the back of my throat tasted like bile.
"Believe me," continued Eve, "I've been here off and on winters since I was a little girl back in the sixties when my parents bought into the park. Pleasant Palmers stick together and get things done. Some trailers may not be worth much, but the land they're sitting on is worth a ton of money. Marvin says sooner or later some big developer's going to come along and offer us a price we can't refuse."
"I hate to interupt," I didn't hate to interupt at all, but I said it anyway.
"Girls, I don't think I can help you right now. I had a rough night," and as soon as I said it I knew I shouldn't have.
"Hitting the bottle again, Hester?" Dee had a twinkle in her eye.
"Come on, Dee, my place is a mess..."
"And her husband's in the hospital. Leave her alone, Dee. Can't you see she's upset?" Eve defended me to Dee and then turned to me with this sorrowful look on her face. It was like looking at my mother after I got my first period. It was an expression you couldn't forget. One that said, "You poor thing."
"Hester, you really should've gone in the ambulance with Al last night. You want me to drive you to hospital now? How is he anyway? He was barely conscious." She reached across the table and put her hand on top of mine patting it like she was trying to tamp down cold dough.
Dee was rooting in the refridgerator for some milk. Her large buttocks in her bright red sweat pants looked like a giant inverted heart. She was mumbling something about fat-free milk and how gross it was. I slipped my hand from under Eve's. I knew she meant well. They both meant well. They were nice women, damn nice women I was lucky to have made friends with, but nice or not, I wanted them to leave. I wanted to be alone, and I was beginning to realize that it wasn't going to be easy to pretend I was all right or, for that matter, anything was all right.
"Look, thanks for coming over, and Eve, thanks for offering to take me to the hospital. Al's okay. He had a concussion, broken ribs, slight heart attack..."
"A heart attack!" again the chorus.
Dee spun around and her thick lips hung open in amazement, "Hester, geezes, a freaking heart attack!"
Now I really wanted them out of there before I was going to have to act upset about Al's condition, before I was going to have to listen to them say how upset they were, how worried they were about poor Al. Why in an hour all of Pleasant Palms would be at my door with everything from garlic hummus to key lime pie. By noon tomorrow all of the details about Al's condition would be in the goddamn PP Newsletter.
"Dee, Eve, I'm exhausted. Don't tell anyone anything. Let's just wait a few days and see how Al does. Please, I just want to lie down and take a rest now."
"Okay, we can take a hint. Right, Dee?" and Eve got up, locked eyes with Dee, and jerked her head toward the door.
Finally, they were gone.
I lowered the mini blinds and twisted the wand to shut them completely. I didn't turn on any lights. I laid on the couch and put my feet up on two throw pillows and tried not to think about Nina and her cold dead body buried just a couple of feet from my door.
An Excerpt from Chapter 10
I drank my coffee, poured another cup, and picked at a slice of low-fat zucchini bread I baked for Al two days ago. I almost gagged on a mouthful of it when Dee and Eve tapped on the sliding glass door. They saw me sitting there so I had to let them in. They appeared disheveled, but pumped up.
"It's not even seven o'clock and the damage in the park has been assessed and a clean-up crew organized," Eve was wide-eyed, on a roll.
I tried to act a little interested, but wasn't, considering I just spent the whole night cleaning up a much worse mess. If they only had a clue? "Come on, we need you," Dee was already cutting herself a piece of the zucchini bread.
"What about my roof? I've got to get a hold of the insurance guy." It was an excuse to get rid of them.
"Hester, honey, they never cover hurricane damage," Eve said this as she moved into the chair opposite me and sat staring at me like I was a pathetic child.
"They cover wind damage, they cover flood damage, but they don't cover hurricane damage. Right, Dee?"
Dee nodded.
"How are your units?" What else am I going to say? Thanks for stopping by, but I want you to go away, to get the hell out of my house, I mean my half-destroyed trailer, the one that's missing half of a roof.
"I lost two screens. I was lucky," Dee was leaning against the counter talking with her mouth full.
I looked at Eve.
"Nothing, no damage at all. All of Coconut Palm Drive is unscathed.""Good for you, Eve. That's great. I'm glad it wasn't a total disaster."
"Nothing around here is ever a total disaster. We'll have this park fixed up in no time. Right, Dee?" Eve winked at Dee and they responded in chorus, "It's the Pleasant Palms way!"
I wanted to puke. The coffee in the back of my throat tasted like bile.
"Believe me," continued Eve, "I've been here off and on winters since I was a little girl back in the sixties when my parents bought into the park. Pleasant Palmers stick together and get things done. Some trailers may not be worth much, but the land they're sitting on is worth a ton of money. Marvin says sooner or later some big developer's going to come along and offer us a price we can't refuse."
"I hate to interupt," I didn't hate to interupt at all, but I said it anyway.
"Girls, I don't think I can help you right now. I had a rough night," and as soon as I said it I knew I shouldn't have.
"Hitting the bottle again, Hester?" Dee had a twinkle in her eye.
"Come on, Dee, my place is a mess..."
"And her husband's in the hospital. Leave her alone, Dee. Can't you see she's upset?" Eve defended me to Dee and then turned to me with this sorrowful look on her face. It was like looking at my mother after I got my first period. It was an expression you couldn't forget. One that said, "You poor thing."
"Hester, you really should've gone in the ambulance with Al last night. You want me to drive you to hospital now? How is he anyway? He was barely conscious." She reached across the table and put her hand on top of mine patting it like she was trying to tamp down cold dough.
Dee was rooting in the refridgerator for some milk. Her large buttocks in her bright red sweat pants looked like a giant inverted heart. She was mumbling something about fat-free milk and how gross it was. I slipped my hand from under Eve's. I knew she meant well. They both meant well. They were nice women, damn nice women I was lucky to have made friends with, but nice or not, I wanted them to leave. I wanted to be alone, and I was beginning to realize that it wasn't going to be easy to pretend I was all right or, for that matter, anything was all right.
"Look, thanks for coming over, and Eve, thanks for offering to take me to the hospital. Al's okay. He had a concussion, broken ribs, slight heart attack..."
"A heart attack!" again the chorus.
Dee spun around and her thick lips hung open in amazement, "Hester, geezes, a freaking heart attack!"
Now I really wanted them out of there before I was going to have to act upset about Al's condition, before I was going to have to listen to them say how upset they were, how worried they were about poor Al. Why in an hour all of Pleasant Palms would be at my door with everything from garlic hummus to key lime pie. By noon tomorrow all of the details about Al's condition would be in the goddamn PP Newsletter.
"Dee, Eve, I'm exhausted. Don't tell anyone anything. Let's just wait a few days and see how Al does. Please, I just want to lie down and take a rest now."
"Okay, we can take a hint. Right, Dee?" and Eve got up, locked eyes with Dee, and jerked her head toward the door.
Finally, they were gone.
I lowered the mini blinds and twisted the wand to shut them completely. I didn't turn on any lights. I laid on the couch and put my feet up on two throw pillows and tried not to think about Nina and her cold dead body buried just a couple of feet from my door.
Click/Kill: When Sylvia Russo fails to find out who murdered her brother Howard, she turns in desperation to trying to finish the work he began on a camera that could control a subject's mind. It's the 1940's and she knows she needs access to a mainframe so she weasels her way into Renssaeller by pretending she's a man and though her ruse is discovered, her talent endears her to her professors and she's allowed to stay. She works in secret, believing that completing Howard's dream will lead her to his killers.
An Excerpt from Chapter 11
When Professor Turing wasn't there, which wasn't often, Sylvia typed codes she'd found in her brother Howard's notes into the giant mainframe. Tonight she would try one last time to make his program work. She ran a small wire from the camera to the only imput terminal of the computer and flipped a combination of switches. The small television screen Turing had ingeniusly rigged up to the panel went bright with static. She held her breath and waited. Slowly the static moved up the screen and Ernest's contorted face stared blankly out at her. A few drops of vomit clung to his clean-shaven chin and spotted his sweater just above the university crest.
She typed her command, quickly tapping the keys of the typewriter also wired to the panel. It was one short sentence, "Come to Newton Hall."
Sylvia hit the space bar twice and the television set went blank. She unhooked everything, put it all in the box except for the camera, and turned on the overhead lights. She put the modified Leica on Turing's desk, sat in his chair and stared at the large round clock above the door.
Fifteen minutes passed.
Nothing happened.
She leaned over pressing her head against the cold wood,waiting just a few minutes longer before deciding she had failed again. So much for success. She began to hum the melody of "In the Mood" and thought about going back to the party and getting drunk. Instead she took the lens off the Leica.
"You're nothing but a lousy flop," she said as much to the camera as to herself, opened the box, put the lense in it's case and the camera next to it, and crisply closed the top. She got up, put on her coat, picked up the heavy box, and headed out of the front entrance to cross the field to the Dean's house. Snow was deep in the gullies and got into her boots. The ground was white and the terrain impossible to predict so she kept stepping in drifts, some as high as her knees. The storm and the darkness made it difficult to see where she was going, and she trudge ahead against the wind wanting to cry, but stifling the urge and letting the anger rise.
Howard haunted her, and tonight she wished he'd let her be, for once just let her be. Instead the flakes of snow whirled up into a pale phantom that pulled her along just like the little sister she was. It was him again, she knew, moving her in some direction she really didn't want to go. It made her weary to contemplate how short of Howard she always fell, and now she couldn't even get his prototype camera to take a decent photograph let alone capture and control someone's mind. She thought of the stupid picture of Ernest. He looked like a confounded idiot.
And despite all of her efforts, she hadn't found her brother's murderer and that angered her more than anything. There was that guy Astin, but she had no way to prove he did anything.
And then there was the war and the world spinning out of control faster than her classmates could whirl across the dance floor. She thought of them speeding past her field of vision at the party, then of the couples in the shadows. There hadn't been an uninhabited couch or corner. She had wanted to sneak up on one of the couples and photograph them just as their lips touched, that first second of contact when the touch was sweet, not urgent, not needy. She thought of Virgil, of LaBamba, of Harriet, even of Turing, especially of Turing, and his authorial hand on her thigh. He had been the first person to touch her that way in a long time, and she couldn't figure out if she liked it or not.
There hadn't been anyone, not even her, who wanted to be alone this night. So much was at stake with the war bekoning like an insatiable goddess.
At the end of the field she came into the light of the frat house window and stepped onto the icy sidewalk. The music and laughter from the party was a loud unified throb that made Sylvia ache. They deserved this last hurrah. She stopped for a minute and thought again about joining them, but instead she tucked her head down into her shoulders, heaved the box a little higher on her hip, and hurried along the front of the building fighting against an even stronger headwind that kept pushing her backward.
Had she waited another second or turned even slightly to glance back at the massive oak doors of the old building, she would've seen what she longed to see. She would've known so much sooner that she hadn't failed again. She would've seen Ernest Rankin walk slowly through the portal and down the steps and head across the snowy field in the direction of Newton Hall. He wore neither a coat or a scarf, but the fleck of vomit had dropped to his Varsity sweater and clung to the crest.
An Excerpt from Chapter 11
When Professor Turing wasn't there, which wasn't often, Sylvia typed codes she'd found in her brother Howard's notes into the giant mainframe. Tonight she would try one last time to make his program work. She ran a small wire from the camera to the only imput terminal of the computer and flipped a combination of switches. The small television screen Turing had ingeniusly rigged up to the panel went bright with static. She held her breath and waited. Slowly the static moved up the screen and Ernest's contorted face stared blankly out at her. A few drops of vomit clung to his clean-shaven chin and spotted his sweater just above the university crest.
She typed her command, quickly tapping the keys of the typewriter also wired to the panel. It was one short sentence, "Come to Newton Hall."
Sylvia hit the space bar twice and the television set went blank. She unhooked everything, put it all in the box except for the camera, and turned on the overhead lights. She put the modified Leica on Turing's desk, sat in his chair and stared at the large round clock above the door.
Fifteen minutes passed.
Nothing happened.
She leaned over pressing her head against the cold wood,waiting just a few minutes longer before deciding she had failed again. So much for success. She began to hum the melody of "In the Mood" and thought about going back to the party and getting drunk. Instead she took the lens off the Leica.
"You're nothing but a lousy flop," she said as much to the camera as to herself, opened the box, put the lense in it's case and the camera next to it, and crisply closed the top. She got up, put on her coat, picked up the heavy box, and headed out of the front entrance to cross the field to the Dean's house. Snow was deep in the gullies and got into her boots. The ground was white and the terrain impossible to predict so she kept stepping in drifts, some as high as her knees. The storm and the darkness made it difficult to see where she was going, and she trudge ahead against the wind wanting to cry, but stifling the urge and letting the anger rise.
Howard haunted her, and tonight she wished he'd let her be, for once just let her be. Instead the flakes of snow whirled up into a pale phantom that pulled her along just like the little sister she was. It was him again, she knew, moving her in some direction she really didn't want to go. It made her weary to contemplate how short of Howard she always fell, and now she couldn't even get his prototype camera to take a decent photograph let alone capture and control someone's mind. She thought of the stupid picture of Ernest. He looked like a confounded idiot.
And despite all of her efforts, she hadn't found her brother's murderer and that angered her more than anything. There was that guy Astin, but she had no way to prove he did anything.
And then there was the war and the world spinning out of control faster than her classmates could whirl across the dance floor. She thought of them speeding past her field of vision at the party, then of the couples in the shadows. There hadn't been an uninhabited couch or corner. She had wanted to sneak up on one of the couples and photograph them just as their lips touched, that first second of contact when the touch was sweet, not urgent, not needy. She thought of Virgil, of LaBamba, of Harriet, even of Turing, especially of Turing, and his authorial hand on her thigh. He had been the first person to touch her that way in a long time, and she couldn't figure out if she liked it or not.
There hadn't been anyone, not even her, who wanted to be alone this night. So much was at stake with the war bekoning like an insatiable goddess.
At the end of the field she came into the light of the frat house window and stepped onto the icy sidewalk. The music and laughter from the party was a loud unified throb that made Sylvia ache. They deserved this last hurrah. She stopped for a minute and thought again about joining them, but instead she tucked her head down into her shoulders, heaved the box a little higher on her hip, and hurried along the front of the building fighting against an even stronger headwind that kept pushing her backward.
Had she waited another second or turned even slightly to glance back at the massive oak doors of the old building, she would've seen what she longed to see. She would've known so much sooner that she hadn't failed again. She would've seen Ernest Rankin walk slowly through the portal and down the steps and head across the snowy field in the direction of Newton Hall. He wore neither a coat or a scarf, but the fleck of vomit had dropped to his Varsity sweater and clung to the crest.
